Rukhar's Story
A short story set after book eleven, Barbarian's Redemption, in the Ice Planet Barbarians series. It is part of the Bedtime Stories short story series, which are published on Ruby Dixon's facebook page. Story RUKH “Father?” I straighten, ignoring the fire I am banking as I hear my son’s low voice. It grows late and Farli and her mate have headed off to their caves to sleep. My mate went to ‘tuck’ our son in for the night, and that has left me to clean up the main common area in the large part of the ancestor’s cave. No, not a cave. A ship. Har-loh always reminds me, a ‘ship’. In my mind, though, there is no way this big, hollow thing can fly through the air like a sky-claw. “My son?” Rukhar emerges from the shadows, a sleepy look on his light blue face. He is pale like my Har-loh, and his mane is not the night-dark shade of mine or my mate’s bright orange, but a rich brown. His horns will be as mine, though, and Har-loh tells me he has my nose – and my frown. He is frowning right now. I feel a sense of pride and affection at the sight of him. It never goes away, this rush of fear and love both. Joy in my son – and utter terror that something will snatch him from me. My body immediately tenses, because it is past Rukhar’s bedtime. “What is it, my son?” He rubs his eyes with one small fist. “Mama fell asleep in my story again.” I relax at that, and cross the room toward him. I scoop him up in my arms, still so light and small at six seasons. Was I ever as small as this, I wonder? I was about his age when I lost my father, and the thought makes me hug him closer. “Mama sleeps?” He nods. “She started yawning in my story, and said she was going to put her head down for just a moment. You know when she does that, she means she is going to sleep.” I chuckle. “I think Mama think she stay awake.” “She never does,” my son says, and grabs one of my braids to anchor himself. “Will you finish my story?” I nod, carrying him back to our little cave. Har-loh has told me before that when she was growing up on Urth, kits had their own caves to themselves, and that adults would sleep separate from them. I am not sure I like that idea. I like that my son is but across the room from us. I can hear him sleeping. He is nearby, and to me, nearby means safe. I enter the room, pushing open the fur flap we use as a privacy screen. There is a door that opens on its own, but my Har-loh says it is ‘buggy’ and she does not like the thought of being trapped inside if the door decides not to open, so she and the one called Mardok removed it. Farli and her mate are down the corridor, and I imagine if more come, we will find room for them as well. Rukhar yawns against my shoulder, but he is quiet. My son is far more like me than his sweet mother. Har-loh is bright and inquisitive, always smiling. My son is a happy male, but he is quiet and watchful, like me. Perhaps our next kit will be a female and full of smiles like her mother. Maybe even the speckles on her pale skin. I like the thought. Sure enough, my mate is curled up in Rukhar’s nest of furs, asleep on her side, her hand tucked under her cheek. My heart aches with a good feeling at the sight of her. Mine. Never did I dream I would have so much. Every morning, I wake up and I am the most content hunter ever imagined, because I have my mate and my son. “Is Mommy okay?” Rukhar asks in a whisper. His small face is full of worry. My brave Rukhar never calls Har-loh ‘Mommy’ unless he is feeling afraid. I pat his back reassuringly. “Mommy is tired. She works long time with Mardok.” His expression is still uncertain, but he nods, trusting. He is right to worry. Even now, I still wake up from a deep sleep and watch my Har-loh to make sure she is well, that the kit she carries in her belly is not stealing the life from her. But ever since Mardok’s tribe put her in their ship and fixed her head, she has been better. The thin, sickly look is gone from her face and she has put on weight. She no longer looks frail, and her cheeks get pink with color. She always assures me she and Mardok ‘run tests’ with the ship to make sure she is well, or we would retrieve the healer from Croatoan. It is not the same as before, and I am glad. I worry, but I will always worry. I set Rukhar down and he crawls into his furs, careful not to disturb his mother. I move to Har-loh’s side and carefully slide my arms under her, tucking her against my chest. She is heavier now than before, I think. Her belly is rounded and full with our next kit, and she snuggles against my skin as I lift her. She does not open her eyes. “Mmm, Rukh. I need to finish putting Rukhar to bed.” “Sleep, my mate,” I tell her in a low voice. “I will put our son to sleep.” She smiles sleepily and when I lower her into our furs across the room, she burrows under the blankets I pull over her and returns to sleep. She works hard, and our kit grows in her belly. Perhaps I should ask her to spend less time with her metal contraptions. That is like asking the suns not to rise in the morning, though. Once my mate is nestled comfortably, I turn back to my son. He is waiting patiently in his own furs, next to them instead of under them, because that is part of the ritual. I reach over and fluff the round ‘pill-oh’ he likes, just like Har-loh does for him, and then when he lies down, I pull the blankets up to his chin and make a show of tucking them against his small form. When he is situated, I sit next to him on the edge of his furs. “Story, Father,” he whispers. I nod. “I have one.” “Is it the same one as always?” “Same one,” I agree. I do not have the imagination my Har-loh does. She comes up with strange, fantastic stories. I only have the one, and that is why Mama is normally in charge of bedtime instead of Father. Rukhar makes a small, impatient noise, but settles in to watch me, and as he does, I notice he puts his cheek on his hand, just like Har-loh does when she sleeps. The sight makes me smile. “This is long time ago,” I begin. “Male hunter, no more your age.” “Six seasons,” he agrees, keeping his voice low. I grunt agreement. The story changes with his age, because I want him to understand. I want him to understand and be happy with what he has, the life we have here…and how important his Mama is to both him and to me. “Hunter is very brave. He follows his father and they hunt every day. They live near the big salt water—“ “The ocean,” Rukhar says, correcting me. I nod. I do not have good words, still. Not like Har-loh and the others. Even after many seasons, I make wrong choices. “They work hard. Travel hard. Live in caves. Both have spears. Hunt big and small animals for food. Never stay in one place. Just move and follow trails. No tribe, just them.” “But they were happy?” My son asks. “Small hunter happy,” I agree. “He love father very much. Father always sad. He misses his mate.” I steal a look over at my mate, with her flame-bright hair spread over the furs. She sleeps, her back to me, and I resist the possessive urge to go and draw her in my arms and press my nose to her throat, breathing in her scent. Mine. But my son watches me with patient eyes, and so I continue. “One day, father get sick. He tells small hunter to be strong and always hide from others. That they are bad ones. Safe to hide. Small hunter does as his father asks. He buries father by great salt water. O-shun,” I say when Rukhar opens his mouth to correct me. I lean in and tap on one of his tiny fangs, smiling. “And small hunter is left alone. For many, many seasons he alone.” “What does he do?” Rukhar asks, even though he knows this story very well. “He hunt. He keep to same trails father showed him. He go to o-shun when it too cold—“ “Brutal season—“ “Yes. Brutal season.” I nod approvingly. My son is so clever. He has his mother’s smart head. “He stay there in brutal season. He go into the mountains in bitter season, when it warmer. And when he see other blue people, he run away because they are bad. They do not know he exists.” “He’s like a shadow,” Rukhar whispers, fascinated at the thought. “Is he happy?” “Small hunter forget meaning of ‘happy’,” I tell him. His messy brown mane spills over his horns and I absently brush it back from his face. It is soft like his mother’s mane. “He remember to hunt. He remember to eat. He remember how to survive. He not remember how to be ‘happy’. He think of this day, and only this day. Then he think of next day, and only that.” Rukhar nods as if he understands. “And he grows up, doesn’t he? The small hunter becomes a big hunter. An adult.” “Yes. And he still hunts, but now he is very fast. He does not get hurt when he hunts. It is easy. It all very easy, and he has much time on his hands. So he look for things to do.” “He’s bored,” Rukhar adds in his small voice. “And then he sees the bright red thing in the distance and follows it. And when he gets there, he sees that it’s a person, not an animal.” I am amused that my son has taken the story and ran with it. “What next?” “And then the big hunter sees that the person looks funny. It’s a girl and she’s got pale ugly skin with dots all over it—“ “Not ugly,” I correct. “Is beautiful. Very beautiful. She best thing he has ever seen.” I do not remember if that is how I felt when I first saw her, but after many seasons of Har-loh and her smiles, I cannot imagine her as anything but perfect. Rukhar continues, whispering. “And the big hunter decides that the female belongs to him. So he hits her over the head and drags her back to his cave. And while he does, his khui is singing at him, telling him that she is his mate. And she wakes up and she’s scared, but the big hunter is patient. He now has a friend and he is never going to let her leave. He realizes that he is tired of being alone. Of having no one to speak to. Of only hunting and sleeping.” All true. All so true. “And you know what the big hunter realizes?” Rukhar asks me. I know this answer. “He realize he happy,” I say softly. “He never happy before he see her.” “Yes,” Rukhar says with a yawn, pleased with the story as always. “And now he is happy forever. And they have a son and another son on the way and they live in the ancestor’s cave.” “Could be girl,” I suggest. “I like a sister for you.” My son just wrinkles his nose. I chuckle low and lean in to kiss his small, hard brow. “Sleep now. Story over.” He nods and reaches for my hand, giving it a childish squeeze before he closes his eyes to go to sleep. My heart hurts with how much happy is in it, and I realize I am smiling. ** end **Category:Short Stories Category:IPB Series